Damnatio Memoriae
by Shinsou808
Summary: Based loosely off of Fable III. Albion is ruined by its mad king. The prince has been erased from existence. Government has turned into a slave. And yet, how is a revolution supposed to form? Prince with OC and canon characters.
1. ABSENS HAERES NON ERIT

**DAMNATIO MEMORIAE**

**BY**

**SHINSOU808**

**CHAPTER I**

**ABSENS HAERES NON ERIT**

**DISCLAIMER: All trademarks are properties of and belong to their respective owners, including Fable to Microsoft Game Studios, Lionhead Studios, Peter Molyneux, et. al. Original characters and plotlines are mine. While I'm not expecting profit, I just ask that you don't rip them off.  
**

High above Albion, the sun shone through the misty clouds. Birds chirped and intertwined through the freshly manicured gardens. The palace courtyard was alive and well with many nobility walking about and minding their own business. I looked on as Elise was playing with my black and white border collie, Mabel. She threw the brightly coloured ball in her hands into the air. I watched it excitedly as it sailed over a hedge, out of sight.

"Drat," she said. "Must've thrown it too hard."

"It's alright," I shrugged. "She loves a good challenge."

"Mabel's gotten big, hasn't she? I still remember when you brought her in as a stray, still a pup."

"Well... she doesn't fit into your arms anymore."

"I kind of wish she did though. She was lovely back then."

Mabel bounded over the hedge with the ball in her mouth. She raced the last few feet before leaping up into Elise, knocking her to the ground.

"Ow... you're not little anymore," Elise said, trying to get up. "Would you kindly get off me, Mabel?"

Mabel walked over her dress with the ball still in her mouth and she dropped it on her cheek. The saliva rolling across her cheek and down her blouse, seeing her shock and her helplessness; it was hard for me not to laugh.

"Get off! Off! Now!" she exclaimed as Mabel leapt off her and trotted towards me with her tail between her legs, ears downtrodden. Elise touched her face nervously. "M-My make-up!"

Redirecting my attention to Mabel, I stroked her head. "She's sorry, Elise. No harm done," I said. I leaned in closer, hoping Elise wouldn't hear. I ruffled Mabel's coat excitedly. "Good girl," I whispered. "Clever acting right there. Just like I taught you."

"You git!" Elise cried. "Is this what you do in your spare time?"

I chuckled, having enough fun at Elise's expense for the day. I approached her and embraced her in my arms, despite Mabel's spit all over her. Despite Mabel barking, urging us to get a move on, I quickly shushed her. I didn't want Mabel getting most of the credit.

"See? I'm covered in spit, too," I reassured Elise. "Satisfied?"

Elise playfully pushed me away. "A bit."

I took her hand. "Come on, I'll take you to the palace so you can find some new clothes, clean up, wash your make-up off-"

"You're not going to smell like dog by the time I leave."

"Fine," I sighed reluctantly. I turned to Mabel. "And you are having a bath immediately."

Now that I looked back on it, that was the memory that kept me sane through the torture. The pain ripped through my body. I screamed and cursed as they branded me with that horrible tattoo. I passed out, dangling from rusted iron chains that hoisted my arms into an inhuman position, as if to be crucified. My curses were all for naught. I'm sure everyone in here knew that. They beat me with the butts of their rifles, prodded me with their bayonets, and shoved the barrels of their guns down my throat. In the bowels of this wretched dungeon I was cold, hungry, weak.

And yet... I was still alive.

612123

Looking at the tattoo engraved into my left arm, I didn't know nor care about the significance of this number. I breathed raggedly; somewhat thankful in the brief respite I was given. I heard rats squeak all over the place, but I don't think I could catch any of them in this state. Beyond the dim flickering flames, footsteps pounded frantically on the cold, lifeless stone. I hung my head down, expecting a guard to come yank me out of here. Only God knows what kind of torture the guards in His Majesty, my brother's prison can think of.

I heard the door click and squeal open loudly. Footsteps approached me, not with eagerness, but with slow cadence of trepidation. Feeling the warm heat and the light against my face, I turned my head to the side, begging for more.

"Bloody hell."

Judging from that raspy voice, it must be Sir Nicholas Clegg, Home Secretary. He would be too no-nonsense and far too sceptical to be a butler. Back when I was in the palace, we'd usually have lively discussions on politics and whatnot whenever the cabinet was on break. Since he was no military man, he was the last person I could think of that could save me. As the chains were released, I collapsed onto the damp stone, gasping for air in the stale room.

I looked up at his shocked face. His clean shaven face was certainly the most striking change. Gone was the full, but neatly trimmed brown beard and moustache that once adorned his face. I saw a few small cuts around his chin and mouth, most likely from shaving on such short notice. A worn burgundy tweed cap sat on his round head.

He yanked me up with his stout arms. "On your feet, lad," he said. "Ready or not, you're coming with me. I'll explain later."

With my arm over his shoulder, we stumbled through the maze of corridors of Bowerstone Castle. His red hand lamp swung in front of me, flame dancing around, making me even dizzier. The paraffin fumes were not helping either. He was going much too fast. I was going to collapse over my dead body at this rate.

As soon as we escaped, I gasped for a few precious breaths of air before I was shoved forward into a waiting laundry cart. As I landed face first, I had to wonder what I was getting into. Before I had a chance to sit up, more stuff fell on top of me, burying me near the bottom. I felt somebody walking all over my backside. It must be him.

"That all?" I heard his muffled voice. "Right. Let's go, Michael. Keep it quiet, you damn overpaid donkey."

"Bloody Nora," I muttered into the pile of laundry stuffed in my face. The stench was horrible, like my head was shoved through a toilet.

I didn't know how long I was in the back of that cart. The stench was horrible. All I could hear was the clacking of the horse trotting along and the chaotic garbles of people chatting away. Sharp jostles rattled the cart as I was tossed helplessly along for the ride. Violent jolts shook my insides. Who designed these streets? I thought I was going to drown in a pile of my own vomit.

Finally, the cart stopped. I felt the weight of dirty laundry lifting off of me. After being dug up from that pile of mess, I was dizzy, confused, nauseated, but thankful to be alive. I got a sense of my surroundings. Clegg parked the contraption in an alley barely wide enough for the cart, much less me, to squeeze through.

"You alright there?" Clegg said. "Grab something out of the pile there and get out of your prison jumpers before someone starts tattling."

He didn't have to tell me twice. I changed into a simple black suit with matching trousers and worn oxfords. Despite missing a cravat, a hat, and wearing clothes that didn't quite fit and weren't laundered for days, I was grateful for anything that was more comfortable than a prison jumper. After I was done, Clegg gave me a quick look-over, probably to make sure rats and moths didn't nibble unsightly holes in them.

"Right. I'm sure you're famished," Clegg said. "Some cheap but filling pub grub will surely cheer you up."

I was led into the pub. It was much livelier and wilder than what I had ever seen in the palaces. Even though it reeked of soot, alcohol, and piss, everyone else that was crowded in arses to elbows didn't seem to mind one bit. Burps, laughs, farts, cheers, and jeers echoed throughout. Controlled chaos seemed to be the appropriate term. I was knocked around quite a bit as we fought our way through the vulgar led me through the mess of people and up to the bar. Dusting off the old tan seats with his dirty, grey hands, he rested his elbows on the sooty black bar.

He raised his fingers up. "Two pints of best please, barman," he said.

The wry barman looked up from cleaning his glasses and stared at me through his thin spectacles. He craned his spry neck down, blue eyes inspecting me from head to toe. His brown hair had tiny specks of foul soot falling onto my hand. A part of me wanted to bitterly chastise him, but I could hold my tongue for now.

"Sorry, sir," the barman said. "Lad looks too young to be drinking. I don't want to be hung over my fine establishment you know."

"But, sir," I said. "I am of legal drinking age."

"Not with your looks you don't. Tell that to any Temperance Lady that comes by. She'll tackle any constable or MP that so happens to walk outside and drag them here. It's not exactly good for business, you know."

"Oh Christ," Clegg grumbled in frustration. He hurriedly grabbed a shilling and some pence out of his coat pocket and discreetly slid them to the barman. "Don't be a bloody prude. This should be enough to bribe a constable or any dumb Member of Parliament that comes dawdling by."

Reluctantly, the barman gave us suspicious looks and curtly nodded. Grabbing two pint tins from the middle rack, he filled them to the brim of dark, mahogany bitter. He swiped the froth from the top with his pitted knife and set them on the bar. If he had the right tools, he would clearly a master at work.

"Well, here you go, gentlemen," he said with a forced smile. "Enjoy."

"Thanks," Clegg said. He raised his tin up, oblivious to the madness around us. "Cheers, mate. God save the King."

I raised my tin as well and tapped it with his. It would be a good toast dripping in irony. "God save the King."

Throwing any semblance of caution out the door, I picked up my tin and started drinking. To be honest, I preferred trifling amounts of port, if any alcohol at all. I didn't like the bitterness of ale nor the burning that followed. It was certainly a harsh and rude drink designed for the working class lot. But right now, with all the things that happened to me, I needed it.

"Oi barman! You got any pork scratchings?" Clegg demanded.

"Sorry, no pork today," the barman said. "There's a foot and mouth epidemic spreading 'round Brightwood."

Clegg slammed his fist down onto the bar. "If you don't have bangers or pork scratchings, surely you must have chips."

"Don't have that either. There's a potato blight up by Oakfield."

"Blimey. What's a pub without pub grub? It's not much better here, I guess."

"It isn't. There's tariffs and taxes on everything now. God save the King," he said sarcastically.

Clegg and I were yanked from our seats and into the fray. Drinkers of all shapes, sizes, and status surrounded us. Between the chaotic music and the frantic dancing, a metal goblet was forced into my hand and into my face. All I felt was the voracious alcohol ravaging my throat. Before I could even say I didn't want any more, more alcohol was shoved down my virgin throat. My body burned up as figures swayed dizzily around me. I collapsed as the world melted and turned to black. I was raped, but strangely, it felt good. I was liberated.

The next thing I knew, I felt the rays of sunlight piercing through my head. Frenetic noises pounded at my ears. If this is what a hangover felt like, it felt like rubbish. My head wanted to split in two. My throat was begging for water. I groaned and rubbed my eyes, hoping for the pain to stop. Clegg sat across from me on the opposite bed, hair dishevelled, causally reading _The Times of Albion._ Assuming he drank as much as me, it's a wonder he didn't have a massive hangover by now.

"Morning," he said, still casually looking at the newspaper. "Sounds like you got your first hangover."

"Shove it," I replied. "Where am I?"

Clegg hastily folded up the newspaper and threw it down on the floor. "The Jules and Verne," he explained. "It's a few buildings down from where you passed out. You weren't roughed up too bad, I'll tell you that."

My head hurt trying to reorganise itself. "Hold on," I said. "You said you'd explain some things to me earlier."

"When? At the pub?"

"Earlier than that."

"Oh, that," Clegg sighed. "You know what happened in The Football Association?"

"What are you mouthing on about? Just bleeding give me the details. I'm not a kid."

As he ranted rather forcefully about two soccer teams that I have never even heard of, he passed me an unmarked, tattered envelope without looking me in the eye. It was suspiciously light. Looking at it cautiously, I tore it open. Slipping out was an identity card with a mix of flourishing and stout calligraphy in deep black ink. Attached to that was a letter in plain English. It read:

_Sir Rupert Edward Windsor (__né:__Hustedt-Schleswigland-Celle), _

_Due to the worsening of the political and socioeconomic climate, I strongly advise against using your real name if you wish not to become a political prisoner. Attached is a forged identity card. If you choose to use it, you will be known as 'David Cameron.' I will be known as 'Gordon Brown.' For my safety, as well as yours, I will address you as 'David' (or any name you prefer) and I ask you address me as 'Gordon'. I have the Royal Guild Seals with me in case they absolutely need to be utilised._

_Clegg _

I re-read the letter again, just to make sure I was reading this correctly. I silently nodded, indicating I understood him. I didn't understand why he just could've told all of this to my face after all this time.

His chatter died. "Why don't we go for a walk?" he suggested. "Are you up for it?"

"Yeah, sure. I'll be fine."

A hazy layer of smog descended on Bowerstone by the time I put on my pair of oxford shoes. Deathly black smoke billowed into the air from towering brick and mortar smokestacks that rose hundreds of feet into the air. The sun struggled to shine through the ashen, weary sky. It made the eyes burn, the throat dry, and the lungs choking desperately for air. I covered my mouth with my sleeve. Not even twenty feet and my oxfords were soiled. Brick buildings were tarnished with blackened stains. The people clogged the narrow lanes with their carts, carriages, and their makeshift stalls.

A paperboy stood on a crate with his stack of papers piled next to him. He grabbed one from the top of the pile and flapped it in the wind. "Today's headlines: Seven dead, three missing in bloodiest Royal shakeup ever!" he belted. "Prince and Home Secretary among missing. All this and more for just a tuppence worth!"

The lad need not say more. Just the mere mention of that made my soul sick and rotten. I became nauseous. It was far worse than I had imagined. I thought I was the only casualty in all of this. I hurriedly tapped Clegg's shoulder and led him off into a narrow alleyway. I rested my hands on my knees and nearly collapsed onto the pavement.

I looked up at Clegg. "What they say in the papers; it's true, isn't it?"

Clegg shrugged. "Afraid it is. Cabinet's effectively dead. Parliament was already a puppet to begin with."

"What about Elise? Is she alright? Tell me she's alright."

Clegg sighed heavily. "I don't know. I'm not surprised if the Percival family got caught up in this as well."

"What do you mean you don't know?"

"Look, you're asking the wrong person," he scoffed. "When His Majesty has obviously taken the piss, anything can happen. I'm not a soothsayer that can predict the whims of a git."

"What about Jasper?"

"Jasper? That bloody old butler?" he paused. "As far as I know, he might have gone up North. Who'd want to serve the King at this rate?"

"You really don't know, do you?" I demanded.

"Well... rumours are better than nothing, I'll tell you that."

We walked further from the middle classes and into the depths of the rookery, the slums. Low brick buildings were crammed together in a line of never-ending misery. Its tenants hung over the open windows in brown sack-clothes, desperate for a breeze that would blow all sorts of foul odours everywhere. Clothing lines and their laundry dipped so dangerously low, I could've sworn it could strangle me if I didn't lower my head. The filthiest lads and lassies I had ever seen were screaming harshly and playing catch within garbage and filth, bare feet splashing in the puddles of dirty water in the middle of the lane. It was genuinely appalling just standing near them.

Looking up ahead, I noticed the queue for the Princes Logan and Rupert Soup Kitchen going nearly 'round the block. Walking closer toward it, I noticed the strong smell of fresh paint that broke through the overwhelming stench of body odours and filth. Normally, that meant a good thing as a good chap was sometimes cheery enough to tidy up the place. A brave and noble attempt at cleanliness no doubt, but ultimately futile in this neighbourhood.

However, upon closer look, two painters were working on the mural that faced the street. My portrait and any mention of me were swiftly and unceremoniously covered up by a generous amount of white paint. To add further insult, my brother's portrait was practically untouched. I was devastated inside. My honour was shattered and covered up. It was a travesty that no one said anything, instead just minding their miserly business. My only response was to stand there in shock, maybe to take my anger out on something. But I couldn't do it; I lost the nerve.

"_Damnatio memoriae," _Clegg said._ "_Most heinous curse ever known to man. You don't exist and His Majesty will make sure you never did. I don't like it and I'm sure you don't either but there's nothing you can do about it for now. Let's get out of here before His Majesty's thugs come strolling about."

As much as I hated hearing that, I knew he was right. Right now, I was David Cameron, just a bloke walking with another bloke named Gordon Brown. Not knowing what to do, a boisterous orator standing atop crates and his captive audience piqued my interest. I ambled down to join them by the docklands.

"Do NOT just blame the King. Do NOT blame yourselves for your miserly existence. Blame... THE NOBLES! ALL OF THEM!" The orator's fist rose and shook into the air as his forehead and eyebrows creased furiously. "The GALL! Look at them! They get richer and you get poorer! Who are the royally appointed exchequers responsible for your ever-increasing tariffs and taxes? Who are the 'newly emancipated' lot who pay for their horses' bathwater with your money? Who squeezes you and your children out of your God-given land into a heathen factory? Who imports poor blokes from faraway lands to take your meagre salary? NOBLES! ALL OF THEM! Ridding all of Albion of such unforgivable scum will turn this country and its people around in a fortnight! I guarantee it!"

The crowd applauded, displaying their approval with fervour only seen in bloodthirsty kings. It was useless trying to resist his enthralling speech. Like the lot, I was looking for someone to blame all my recent troubles on. I couldn't take my anger out on the poor knowing I'd have to get their support to overthrow my brother. Just looking at them, it was clear that they suffered too much. I couldn't blame them for choosing a scapegoat to slaughter.

"Don't listen to that load of rubbish, David," Clegg whispered. "The lot will brainwash you into a blithering prat. Not all nobles are like that, especially me."

The crashing of boots marching in one loud, unified sound interrupted the orator's anti-noble speech. Behind the orator was a column of His Majesty's finest brutes, with rifles on their shoulders, immaculate burgundy coats, wide bandoliers, polished buttons, and tall brim hats imposing their status on the less-deserving lot. I used to hold them in high regard, essential to the defence of this country, but not anymore. They were tyrants, just as guilty as the King they served.

"Oi! What's the holdup? What's going on here?" an officer demanded as he ran to the front of the column. His cocked hat nearly swatted some poor bloke in the face. "Just march over them if you have to!"

"YOU!" The orator pointed at him, finger and arm trembling. "WHERE WERE YOU RAISED? Are you a spoiled sod commanding our corrupt army? How dare you trample the rights of the common working class that toil for your luxuries!"

Their commander did not flinch. "No one... accuses me of being a spoiled sod," he growled. "Fix... BAYONETS!"

As the soldiers fixed their bayonets to their rifles, the crowd panicked and pushed me onto the pavement. Heels trampled my helpless body as I struggled to stand. Clegg, seeing me under the trampling crowd, tugged at my sleeves. I kicked my exhausted legs, trying to get to out of the way. I did not want to be impaled today.

"P'sent!" he commanded. "Fire!"

As soon as I heard that command, I felt searing metal going through my thigh. I couldn't scream in pain. Freedom tasted good, I won't deny that. I was too naive as a member of royalty, the epitome bourgeoisie. Just in my scant travels, I've seen too much. Social injustice plagued Bowerstone and I wasn't going to let it fester like an infected boil on the face of this city that rested on the ruined face of Albion.

_To Be Continued..._

**AUTHOR'S NOTES: _Dictum: Because I've got explaining..._**

As you may have noticed, this is my darker and less idealistic interpretation of Fable III; featuring an alternate beginning. No the-prince-deserves-a-second-chance niceties here. In my opinion, His Majesty, King Peter of Lionhead has created a vibrant, fantastic, but very idealistic world where morality plays more black-and-white, your allies are far too willing and trusting to help you, and the voice of revolution is far too unified and not caught up in messy politics_. _Out of the many characters and NPC's, most are quirky and likeable, but there is only a core group of characters that I truly liked. As such, OCs will abound and canon characters will have a mix of stronger and new attributes. Likewise, the people under them will also have stronger and broader political views. Storyline, characters, events, aspects, etc. will try to be faithful to the game but will have certain amounts of spin. Kind of like the new Hawaii Five-0 in a way. I have yet to make a decision regarding magic. While I do like it, it's overpowering to spam magic attacks in quick succession. As a result, I've decided to hold it off for now and to introduce it in later chapters, most likely the next one.

History-wise, it game seems to be a cross between Regency and Victorian Eras. As such, I've tried to blend aspects from those particular periods in British History. The astute reader will catch key aspects from that period as well as some references of more modern times. Weaponry-wise, there will be no semi-automatic, unlimited ammunition, sans-reload weapons. However, since muzzle loading muskets and rifles exacerbate the already painfully slow rounds per minute rate by modern standards, I'm willing to introduce breech-loading weapons that were not introduced until the mid-to-late Victorian Era. Societal research has been inspired by the works ranging from Charles Dickens to _The Supersizers Go..._ Regency and Victorian.

Despite the British vocabulary and spelling, the author is a Yank, Merkin, or whatever creative words for Americans British people think of in their spare time. I'm confident that Microsoft Word spellchecking in British English and browsing multiple dictionaries has covered most of it, but I'm not narrow-minded to think there may be some mistakes.

Love it? Hate it? Reviews and feedback are greatly appreciated!


	2. BONUM COMMUNE COMMUNITATIS

**CHAPTER II**

**BONUM COMMUNE COMMUNITATIS  
**

**DISCLAIMER: All trademarks are properties of and belong to their respective owners, including Fable to Microsoft Game Studios, Lionhead Studios, Peter Molyneux, et. al. Original characters and plotlines are mine. While I'm not expecting profit, I just ask that you don't rip them off.**

The next thing I knew, I felt a cool mist settling on my face. The wind howled with a deep, chilling hollow. The crisp air settled into my lungs. A chill swept over my body. Opening my weary eyes, I found myself prostrate on the ground, arms spread across black stone. An ornate, imposing wrought iron gate with towering ramparts on both sides loomed over me. Heavy fog obscured the path ahead. I didn't know where I was or what I was doing here. Nearly panicking, I tried to my arms to push me up, but to no avail.

A woman covered in red and white clothing appeared out of thin air. She had her arms crossed pensively. The wind ruffled her fine red and white headdress. As she walked over to me, I panicked. Looking up at her pale face, her pearly eyes did not move, nor did her upturned mouth flutter. I was completely in her control; as if I didn't have enough control issues to deal with at the moment.

Outstretching her slender hands, she summoned a gold and blue circular trinket in mid air. It curiously looked like a larger Royal Guild Seal, with "æ" pattern at the centre. Grabbing it, she approached me with slow, deliberate steps.

"Stop! Who are you? What do you want with me?" I demanded.

"I am Theresa, the Seer of the Spire," she responded, nary a flinch of her brow. "I have followed you, Prince Rupert, ever since the beginning. But first, I must allow the Guild Seal to conduct a simple test."

"I can do it myself, thanks," I said. Her words made no sense at all.

"I know. However, I must oblige that the Guild Seal chooses impartially."

"Choose what? The Royal Guild Seal does not choose anything. It only belongs to our family and to nobles we deem that need royal association."

"Have you forgotten, Prince Rupert? Your father created a replica with different dimensions to which he could identify himself as the Hero of Bowerstone. The Seal of the Heroes' Guild does not discriminate who it chooses. It could be a peasant, a freeman, or a noble."

"He never said anything about that. What happens if it doesn't choose me?"

"Then you will be returned in your present state, without recollection."

"Oh, okay," I said hesitantly, somewhat satisfied with her reassurance. No, wait. In my 'present' state, I was shot and lying in the middle of a street. Sending me back was going to be a death sentence. I was going to be trampled, shot again, or at least succumb to my injuries. "No, please don't!" I pleaded. "Anything but that! I'll die!"

"There is nothing more I can change," Theresa said. Kneeling down, she took the seal and pressed it against my brow. I closed my eyes, trying desperately to accept my fate. "I ask again, Seal of the Heroes' Guild of Albion, is it this one?"

Warm heat enveloped me. Something tugged against against my chest, my back, and my limbs. Bright light pierced my eyelids. The wind howled louder, like a tempest in my ears. Was it choosing me? I couldn't tell. As the wind died down, I opened my eyes. Not seeing a boot crash onto my face was an enormous relief.

She held out her outstretched arm to me. "Rise, Prince Rupert. The Seal awoke at your touch, as it would at no one else's."

As Theresa helped me up, I expected to fall back onto my face or at least stumble around like a chicken with its legs sheared off. Feeling no pain at all, I looked down. There was a hole in my trousers where a bullet ripped through it. There was no blood, no gore, just a solitary hole uncovering skin. There was no possible explanation, other than it was a miracle.

"You did-? How did you do that?" I stammered.

"I did not heal you," Theresa said. "That is for the Seal to decide."

"That's nice to hear," I said. "But what am I? How do you know my father?"

"I guided your father, like so many others, in his greatest triumphs and his lowest misfortunes," she said, stepping off to the side and gesturing beyond the gate. "Before you lies the path you were born to take. At its end was the kingdom you were born to rule. You will face many trials, but you cannot pass through these gates alone. You will need to gather followers and the support of the people. The people of Albion are fractured in their opinions, but they long for a leader to guide them, to lead a revolution."

"Revolution? You lead it," I said dubiously. "My existence has been erased from Albion. I can't even use my name anymore."

"Yet your name and your image still carry some recognition. Mine carries none. I live in the Spire. I am content."

Clegg appeared before me. "Currently, you have the support of the former Home Secretary, Nicholas Clegg; loved and reviled in equal measure by the people of Albion," Theresa said. "He has made many difficult decisions throughout his career, balancing the needs of the people while placating the nobles he associated with. He appears friendly, but his support is as tenuous as anyone else's." The gates squealed open behind her. "For now, claim your reward, which the Guild Seal entrusts in your care."

As the gates clamoured all the way open, I was left alone. Ferns and rosemary flowers flanked the narrow patch. At the end was a solitary chest. Approaching it cautiously, I opened it, not knowing what was inside. Expecting at least a pittance of gold, resting innocently at the bottom was a simple red and gold fingerless glove of some sort. Bending over to reach it, I reluctantly put it on. Feeling something pulse through my body, I tried to whip it off my arm but it wouldn't let me.

Theresa appeared once more. "There is magical power inside you. You merely lack the means to unleash it. This is the only remaining artefact of the Guild that vanished more than half a century ago."

A small ball of flame erupted from and floated slightly above my hand. Looking at it awkwardly, I flicked my wrist. I watched as it sailed out and disappear into the mist. It may pass off as a parlour trick; but to do real damage, I'd have to aim it at someone's face.

"You have taken your first steps, but there is still much to do," Theresa said. "Now go!"

The next thing I knew, I was kicked out and left in darkness once again. Instead of the howling wind, harsh clacking and rattling sounds welcomed me once again. My body was jostled and thrown as the cart hit an occasional rock or pothole. Groaning a bit, I propped my arms up, trying not to have my back broken prematurely.

"David! Stay down!" Clegg said. "You alright there? I thought you were a real goner!"

"At least I'll live," I said. Looking at Clegg, Theresa's words resonated in me. The words were there to question his loyalty and his background, but that would send him off in a jiff. Casting him as a traitor would be a grievous mistake on my part. His knowledge was valuable, especially now.

"You sure?" Clegg wondered. "You like you just had a bleeding catharsis."

"I'm fine, Cle-"

"Don't call me that!" he hissed. "Remember, I'm Gordon."

"Right. Sorry, Gordon."

"Anyway, rest up if you can. I reckon we'll near Brightwall by dusk."

Glancing at my bandaged leg, I think I could heed Clegg's advice for now. At least he trusts me enough to tell me where he's taking me. Maybe if I told him my leg was fixed by a kooky soothsayer and a magical Royal Seal, he'd actually believe me. Yeah right. Miracles were fairly easy to explain with the Maker behind everything.

The last rays of sunlight beckoned as the carriage made its way across an arched stone bridge. Compared to Bowerstone, the landscape was beautiful. The abundance of pines, the grasses, and the flowers made me wish I'd live here. After we hit another pothole, I looked ahead. Brightwall, at least on first impressions, disappointed me. There was a gaping hole in the side where someone could easily plunge to their death. The battered and weathered walls looked liked they had seen better days. The hanging banners that carried the insignia of Logan were sharp and gaudy to my dismay. If he could afford new banners, surely he could afford some improvements in infrastructure.

Clegg yawned. "This here's Brightwall," he said. "Anyone who's never been here will be quick to label people here as simpletons, country folk, or yokels. Call anybody that and you'll get a good tug by the ladies and a pummelling from the men."

"Is it safe?" I wondered.

Clegg tipped his hat. "Course it is. No one's going to mug you in the streets like in Bowerstone. They'll leave you be if you don't act like a prat," he smiled. "Let me look at your leg for a moment. I've probably got to change your bandage and make you look, well, presentable."

"There's no need for it. Honest. I can do it myself," I said, waving my hand in front of his face.

Clegg untied the bandage. "I don't think anybody has taught you basic first aid, much less- Bloody hell! What's going on here?"

"What?" I said, feigning my surprise. I knew who fully healed me. The hard bit was trying to put on a convincing act.

With the bandage still around my leg, he poked my leg repeatedly with his outstretched finger. "I don't believe it myself, but it looks to me like it's fully healed. Try moving your foot."

I did. Feeling no pain as expected, but I tried to act amazed. "It seems fine to me. I don't feel anything."

"Bollocks. Well, bless the maker. I guess I don't have to blow pounds on the doc then. More money to drink!" he said gleefully.

As we arrived into Brightwall, Clegg paid off the driver and we hurried off to the nearest pub or inn we could find. Maybe I could grow to love this city with its lack of smokestacks, the trees sprouting into the air, and citizens that didn't look like they went through a latrine. The playful laughter of children and the smell of fresh flowers reminded me of simpler times from my youth. Sure there were His Majesty's guards out in force, but they generally kept to themselves. The only downside was seeing my brother's face plastered on the exterior of every single quaint and charming building. Despite my personal loathing, it seemed no one seemed to care and carried about closing up shop for the day.

We soon found the Ye Quill & Quandary Inn, a quaint little place in the middle of town. After getting a room for the night, we proceeded to get tipsy with the best bitters money could reasonably buy in these parts. While some alcohol was nice, I wanted to avoid blacking out like last time. Stumbling up the steep, narrow steps nary a moment too late, I collapsed into the room and onto a waiting bed. Another long day would likely await me.

The next morning, we left Brightwall bright and early and headed straight into the mountains. As we climbed higher, the temperature got colder and the air was thinner. I don't think I have ever seen snow before. I liked it how it contrasted on the dark, tall pines. Seeing my breath was a nice touch too.

"So where are we going?" I asked.

"There's supposed to be a Dweller Camp in Mistpeak Valley. Got to go meet the leader. I think his name is Sabine."

"Dwellers?"

"Yeah. They're a proud lot, not used to eating day-old frozen pinecones for dinner. The army was about to slaughter them before a truce was negotiated by none other than yours truly. Instead of blowing the damn place to bits, they've blockaded it." Clegg sighed, "I'm afraid with me out of the way, the king's going to enjoy a good romping."

"So what's so special about them?"

"They've been the most successful at getting under King Logan's nose. They nearly came close to taking Brightwall and the surrounding area at one point. If we can stabilise the situation and work their allegiance to our favour, we'll gain a steadfast ally to recruit others."

"But why not go to the army camp instead?"

"You've got to realise that whatever we order doesn't carry any authority anymore. Army blokes love shooting things, preferably something live. Rumours are their blockade is thin around here. There should be an abandoned tin mine where we can sneak in."

After more trudging through the snow, Clegg stopped and quickly dived to the ground. I did so as well, enjoying the sensation of fresh snow up my nose. As we crawled through the snow, I was nearly freaking out. If I knew I was going to be shot again today, I would have stood up and ran.

"Two guards, dead ahead," he whispered. "They look like greenhorns. If we're lucky, they'll cock up."

To my surprise, they looked like the same age I was, if not younger. We watched them closely. The brown-haired guard dug his finger into his ear and flung earwax into the woods. His blonde-haired chap bent over and farted, stretching back afterward.

"Jesus Christ! What gives? They were supposed to relieve us an hour ago," the brown-haired guard moaned.

"I dunno," his partner said. "I've heard a shipment of brandy was coming in. Going towards the officers of course."

"I dunno 'bout you, but a bottle of brandy is better than standing here for another minute," he said as his vigorously bounded up from his chair and started marching. His partner followed him as they trudged through the snow, right past us even. I was sceptical at first, but their footsteps got softer, not stopping to rebound back even.

"See? Told you," Clegg whispered. "Come on. They'll be back soon."

Breaking from the snow, we ran toward the entrance. I didn't stop running. Truth be told, I didn't think we were going to make it, but we did. Grabbing a torch, we proceeded deeper into the tin mine. Fearing the endless possibilities that could go wrong, I never liked these tight spaces. The wooden supports groaned loudly, anticipating a cave in. Plus, if the mine caught fire, it was all over. The squealing rats unnerved me as well. I might as well admit that I was a pansy in these types of places.

After wandering around for quite a while through the maze of narrow tunnels ready to collapse, we hit a dead end. Scattered on the ground were a few shovels, stained with blood. Shallow scratch marks indicated the way to go. Without saying a word, Clegg picked one up and started digging. I hurriedly joined in.

Our frantic digging paid off. My shovel discovered light. Thank the Maker we were getting out. We dug excitedly, as if savouring that faint light through that tiny hole. Once we broke through, I dashed forward, eager for fresh air and relief from cramped spaces.

The bleak winter landscape revealed itself once again, littered by craters. Flanking the winding frozen dirt path were a solitary pair of brown banners too tattered to be even recognisable. The stone guardrail guiding the road into the camp had gaping holes in it. As we neared the camp, it was clear that the damages of war did not spare the buildings. The rubble of half-collapsed houses splintered from the snow.

"Well, here we are. Not much to look at, I'm afraid," Clegg said. "But this is where the revolution begins. This is what the king has reduced them to. He's taken control of these mountains and started razing forests. And that was before the war."

Overpowering the howling of the wind were the moaning and weeping of the remnant people. They gnashed their teeth on anything they could find, hoping to dull their misery with pain. They complained profusely about my brother, threatening to wring his neck and hang him from the highest pine tree if they could. However, any mention of Sabine was followed by praise. Despite that, they choked on the frozen ice they were forced to eat from numbed hands.

A little girl ran up to me. "I'll trade you my doll for some food. Please, sir, she's really good. Honest."

"No thanks, love," I said.

"Everything's gotten bloody pear shaped since I last came here," Clegg said. "I've never seen it this bad in ages."

We worked our way up a small hill, against the cold wind and the falling snow to walls made of timber lashed together by rope. At its centre were two wooden doors. Two guards were on either side, huddling around their weak fires; even though they were fully clothed. They pulled cloth from the banners that hung beside them and threw them into the fire. Clegg walked over to one of them and whispered, eventually flashing his papers. What he said to the guard was beyond me, but it seemed to work.

After he was done, he turned to me. "As I said, the man we need to convince is Sabine," Clegg explained. "He's a proud old sod, but he's a relatively good man, if not a stubborn little bugger. His allegiance will be difficult to obtain, especially to us. I've got a lot of explaining to do." He rolled his eyes. "To be honest, I'll have my arse chewed first."

"Well, good luck," I shrugged.

"Thanks," he said. Clegg grabbed a fistful of coins out of his pocket. "Use the last of the pounds if you have to. Support the local economy and buy _something_ if you can. Just be mindful of beggars. Once you give to one, the whole lot of them will come out."

With that last piece of advice, Clegg disappeared behind the pair of wooden doors. Still stuck with the handful of coins in my hand, I hurriedly shoved them in my pocket, hoping nobody saw that. Turning around to leave, I was confronted by the crowd must have gathered behind us while we were talking. They said nothing, but their vacant eyes screamed in silent desperation.

"Papa, are we getting food today?" a child's voice cried out.

No one in the crowd dared to answer that innocent child's plea. Neither did I. Confronting the crowd head on, I walked toward them with deliberate steps; crunching the ice and snow underneath my feet. To my astonishment, they put up no resistance and parted to let me through. I did not dare meet their glares. I was too scared to.

Once again, I was left alone and free to look around for a bit. A family huddled beside a felled pine tree. A man with a torn jacket for a coat, I assumed was the father, was grunting in the harsh cold, digging a hole in the frozen ground. Next to them was something round wrapped in a few strands of rags. One could only assume it was a child. Two trees over and a son was burying one of his parents. Unsurprisingly, it didn't look like anyone dared to set up shop when they and their families were starving and freezing to death.

The town centre was devastated when I got there. Only the eroded pedestal remained of a grand statue, its contents probably melted down. Amazingly, there was one tiny cart with a gaping hole in the back. A lone mannequin was still standing, trying desperately to peddle its wares.

A shabby vendor was at the foot of his stall, cannibalising it by ripping off pieces of wood. Nearby was a weak fire, where I assumed the people gathered around it were his family. His ragged face and pale blue eyes met mine.

"Hello. Please look around," he gestured with shivering arms. "It's not much I'm afraid, but it's all I've got. If we don't get some food soon, it's all over."

Despite being batted by the wind and the snow a bit, it looked fine to me. Trying it on over my coat, it felt a bit bulky with all of the extra fur, but it did wonders against the cold. It may have looked like it was pelted by the snow more than a few times, but I felt it was in good enough condition.

"I'll take it," I said. "How much for this?"

His eyes widened. "You're joking, right?" he said in astonishment. "P-P-Pardon me, sir, but no one's bought anything in ages. I don't even remember how much I sold it to the last person."

"No harm taken," I said. I pulled the money out of my pocket. With this kind of product, I reckon it was worth more than a couple shillings. "I don't have any food but, um, three pounds?"

"Bless you, sir. Bless you," he said, thanking me profusely as I dropped the coins into his hands. "I'll never forget you. Stop by again and I'll give you a discount."

Satisfied with my purchase, I moved on. Seeing the beggars out in force in the cold, I wanted to help them, I really did. But remembering what Clegg had said, I knew I didn't have enough money to satisfy everyone. Plus, I needed money for myself. Two pounds weren't going to last very long, even for the most basic expenses. Although I'd never feel good about it for the rest of my life, I stiffed them all, not sparing a penny. Heartless, maybe, but I didn't have much of a choice.

Clegg was waiting outside the gates. "Well, I guess you look more like a murderer or a rapist with that garb on," he said. "Come on in, Sabine is quite _eager_ to meet you."

I followed Clegg inside. A solitary rug greeted me in the middle of an expansive section sealed off from the rest of the camp. Four caravans were parked at the corners, with a fire near the one off to my left. A giant tent stood in the middle, curiously taller than wide. Lanterns were strung between each caravan, seemingly impervious to damage. Compared to the surroundings his people were living in, it seemed like a palace.

A towering man grunted. Crossing one of his eyes was a gaping scar nearly matching his outrageously long and fat moustache. His arms rested stiffly above his rotund skull and crossbones buckle. He was dressed in the same oversized Dweller costume as I was, with spiked armour jutting from his shoulders. Was this menacing person really Sabine? I was going to be in a lot of trouble if it was.

"Out of the way, Boulder. I can't see a thing," an annoyed voice chided. Inside of a spacious tent ornately decorated with lanterns and rich cloths was an arrogant, stubby little old man sitting on a grand throne carved out of a pine tree. Compared to what his people were dressed in, he was dressing in a multicoloured outfit made of cashmere. Fancy red boots, jewellery all over his body, a gilded golden hat with a flamboyant feather; even gold earrings and gold hoops for his wide and snowy white moustache and beard. As if that weren't enough to satisfy his penchant for dressing so outrageously. He could be forgiven for being a noble if he wasn't here of all places.

He sighed and rested his elbow on the on the side of his throne. "Look Prince Rupert, your attempt to blend in won't fool anyone, especially not the likes of me."

"It's the least I can to do to help your community," I said.

He stood up from his throne and marched down the steps; gold medallions on his chest clanging. "Bah. Dwellers can't eat money. You're not helping anyone. So, what do you think of our home? Do you like what your brother has done to us? Stripping our land? Bombarding us? Driving us to the brink of death so he can have his way?"

I tried to visualise all the things I had seen wandering around this place. "Seeing it on my own, it's despicable. I'd never let this happen."

"The Home Secretary has already come and offered ridiculous promises. Why should we follow Logan's kin?"

"I'm not like him!"

He swung his arm in front of my face. "Pah. We don't take much stock in words 'round these parts. Toss me a piece of venison, Boulder."

Boulder grabbed a slightly red but juicy looking steak out of a bag near the fire and lobbed it into the air. Seeing it land in Sabine's hands, he began devouring it eagerly, as ravenous as a hungry schoolboy. While his people were eating pinecones and snow, he was eating freshly cooked deer. What nerve! I couldn't take it any longer.

"What a hypocrite," I muttered. "Only kings are not subject to rations."

Sabine took another bite. "It may not look it, but this is the only piece of meat I'll have in a month. What do you expect me to do? Toss this over the gate and expect people to divide it up fairly and rationally? Like good little boys and girls?"

"Well, yeah," I shrugged.

He swallowed his bite of venison. "If I toss this piece of venison over the gate, I guarantee you that this community will die. People will kill each other until there is no one left, all for this one piece of deer meat. By that time, it will have spoiled and rot, and any gains would have been all for naught."

Hearing someone stomping in the snow behind me, I turned. One of the Dweller guards came running toward us. He kneeled down. "Sir, there is a mob outside the gates demanding an audience," he said.

"I'm in the middle of a meeting," Sabine said. "Can't this wait?"

"Afraid not, sir. They'll slit his throat otherwise."

Sabine turned to us. "If you'll excuse me, gentlemen, I'm afraid I must take care of this urgent matter. I assure you it won't take long."

"Fine with us," Clegg said.

Sabine stuffed the rest of his crude meal into his royal attire. He redirected his attention to the guard. "I only want two people in here; the person accused and one member from the mob to argue their cases."

"What about our visitors, sir?"

"They may witness."

"Yes, sir."

A man and a woman came forward and stood in front of Sabine, with accompanying Dweller guards making sure they wouldn't tear each other to pieces. Both were clearly poor in their tattered outfits, ripped coats, and hodgepodge mending. Frazzled hair and gruff beards seemed to be common appearances for these people.

"Mrs. Fletcher, what's all the trouble over that someone's throat would be slit over?" Sabine asked.

The woman whipped out a piece of parchment. "My Lord, look at Mr. Peck's deed," Mrs. Fletcher stated forcefully. "This is a contract forged from briberies and fraud! This land deed should be rendered null and void."

"No!" Mr. Peck pleaded. "I didn't know! I didn't know it was connected to Reaver!"

"Who sold you this land, Mr. Peck?" Sabine asked.

"John Marshall, my Lord, representing Marshall and Sons," Mr. Peck said.

"I see no connection to Reaver here," Sabine said.

"You fail to realize that Marshall and Sons were one of the land companies that received the lands through direct payment from Reaver, who in turn obtained it after the king himself seized my land and many others without compensation," Mrs. Fletcher stated. "We demand that you nullify this deed and restore the lands which we obtained honourably before we were shoved off."

"What you're saying is that the sale of this land to Mr. Peck directly benefits Reaver and the king?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"What do you have to say in your defence, Mr. Peck?"

"The transaction was an honourable one. I enquired about the land and I was reasonably satisfied with Mr. Marshall's answers. He made no disclosure that the land was taken in such a way. Had I had known, I wouldn't have bought the land," Mr. Peck confessed. "But you can't take away my land! I paid for it legitimately and honourably! I have a wife and a daughter! I can't possibly take a loss of property!"

"My husband was killed and I have three children!" Mrs. Fletcher screamed. "Don't you dare compare your hardships to mine!"

"Hmm..." Sabine said. He paced around and sat back in his throne, pondering his response. Clegg honestly looked bored; his eyes darting around everywhere. I however, was kind of fascinated by these arguments. It seemed like Sabine had no way out. He'd have to make a very tough choice. Sabine rose from his chair again. "It hasn't been an easy decision, but I'm sure it is best for the community. I can't ignore the fact that this sale directly supports the efforts against us. The buyer should have been more responsible."

"This is ridiculous!" I said before Sabine could continue further. "Why are you going after him instead of the seller?"

Before I knew it, I was knocked to the cold, unforgiving earth face first. A brute force pressed on my back. Twisting my head back, I realised that it was Boulder's knee. He was doing a great job of immobilising me. I was struggling to breathe.

"I said you may witness, not meddle," Sabine hissed. "I do what is best for our community. What Royals haven't."

"What do you want from me then?" I demanded.

Kneeling down, he brought his face close to mine, staring me in the eye. "Proof," he growled. "Proof that you're not another talking head." He pointed over my shoulder. "See Clegg? He came here promising the same vague promises you are. If you're a man of action, maybe I'll listen. Otherwise, you're wasting your time." Retreating to his throne, he sat down and crossed his legs. "If you have nothing more to add, please leave. Boulder will kindly show you out."

As Boulder forced me up off the ground, Sabine gave me one final glare. He was no wiser than anyone else. Clegg and I were escorted out in defeat, trudging our weary feet across the icy ground. The doors closed shut behind us. We were left out in the cold, without a plan. If we needed support from that old miser, we were certainly not off to a good start. I wondered how we were even going to get support from him at all.

Clegg sighed, "Well, that's that. I didn't expect anything go down easily, especially negotiating with him of all people."

"Sorry, Gordon, I shouldn't have said anything," I said.

"Naw, don't be so hard on yourself, David," Clegg patted me on the back. "You've stood up for something. He may not show it, but the old geezer respects that. Battles like these are hard fought with little gain and constant defeat."

"So, what next?"

Clegg shrugged. "Head back to Brightwall and regroup, I suppose. Dinner's on me."

I smiled, "Sounds like a good idea."

_To Be Continued._

_**DICTUM: MORE CLARET! MORE SLASH! MORE REVIEWS!**_

_Thank you to Our Lives Online _and _Magical Mistress Sarai for reviewing!_

Princess/Ben Finn, Princess/Walter, Princess/Reaver, Princess/Logan_... _I don't mind slash but it's ridiculous that the princess has to be paired up with everything. Before anyone knows it, we'll have Princess/Sabine, Princess/Saker, and Princess/RandomOCvillager. Don't take it personally, it's just my shrewish observation._  
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Sabine in-game is quite reasonable, contrary to what the canon may think. Walter's comments of Sabine being "hard to convince" are bloody rubbish. He states his demands clearly with little resistance, sends the player off for fetch quests quite nicely, and somehow avoids the temptation and trappings of war, even when *SPOILER ALERT* you fail to uphold your promises as king and mine them *END SPOILER ALERT*. Even from a brief stint working in government, even I can tell you that politicians are nowhere near as willing to engage in compromise and alliance building. Most of these fail on their first attempt. How does Sabine get away with the extravagance he does? I found that very intriguing. A very contemporary analogue would be Winston Churchill. Britain was blockaded during WWII and Churchill, like everyone else, was subject to severe rations and lousy food. In practice though, he guzzled bottles of champagne, chomped cigars, and had lavish food. I doubt any politician would be in office if they tried to pull that today. I guess Churchill could be forgiven; he wouldn't have won the war without champagne.

I also wanted to introduce more of the "tough decisions" bit. To do so, a great starting point would be constitutional legal cases. Unfortunately, the UK does not have a single constitution, unlike the US and so many others. With "constitutional" laws in the UK scattered across 30 or so separate documents (including the Magna Carta), it would take far too long and too difficult to analyze them. Therefore, I will be using the framework of the significantly less complicated US constitution. Constitutional law and US Supreme Court cases have been analyzed in far greater detail than their British counterparts with topics covering everything from due process, contracts, and eminent domain to whether a tomato is a fruit or a vegetable (see: Nix v. Hedden, 1893). For being forced to buy an expensive, 600-page, telephone book sized, and unusually dull textbook for university, it's being put to further good use. Oyez is also a lifesaver.

This case referenced here is Fletcher v. Peck (1810). In it the Supreme Court ruled that the Contracts Clause of the US Constitution prohibited Georgia from voiding contracts for the transfer of land, even though they were secured through illegal bribery. It was 5-0 in favor of Peck. The outcome was flipped in this story compared to its real-world result but the moral and legal dilemmas were the same.

Love it? Hate it? Reviews and feedback are greatly appreciated!


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